I06 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



man under his vine and under his fig-tree, with 

 thankfulness and hope. 



With hope, because these our gardens — scenes 

 though they be of brightest beauty to our eyes, 

 and sources of our purest joys — do not satisfy, 

 are not meant to satisfy, our heart's desire. Per- 

 ishable as we ourselves, for the grass withereth, 

 the flower fadeth, they are moreover, like all our 

 handiwork, deformed by fault and flaw. Did you 

 ever meet a gardener, who, however fair his 

 ground, was absolutely content and pleased ? Did 

 you never hear *' O si angiUus ille P' from the 

 lord of many fields ? Is there not always a tree 

 to be felled or a bed to be turfed ? Does not 

 somebody's chimney, or somebody's ploughed 

 field, persist in obtruding its ugHness ? Is there 

 not ever some grand mistake to be remedied next 

 summer ? Alas ! the florist never is, but always 

 to be, blessed with a perfect garden : and to him, 

 as to all mankind, perfect happiness is that " gay 

 to-morrow of the mind, which never comes." 



These imperfections and mistakes, of course^ 

 arise in our gardens mainly from our own ignor- 

 ance or indolence ; and as sterility, feebleness, and 

 premature decay, are caused not by tree, plant, 

 weather, soil, but by wrong treatment, position, 

 neglect ; so all unsightly combinations, poverty or 



